


Goodbye from the Refuge

by buttons_n_bose



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Canon Era, Letter From the Refuge, Major character death - Freeform, Santa Fe, The Refuge, repost from tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 01:32:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20184028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttons_n_bose/pseuds/buttons_n_bose
Summary: Jack goes to break Crutchie out of the refuge, only to receive some tragic news.





	Goodbye from the Refuge

No one wanted to believe it at first.

It didn’t seem real. Just three days ago, Crutchie had sent Jack a letter. Just two days ago, Jack had snuck his way to the refuge to pay him a visit. Just yesterday, Davey had asked his parents if here was anything that could be done for kids in the refuge. The newsies were sure of two things: the strike was working, and they were going to get Crutchie free.

“D’you think Brooklyn will help?” Les asked timidly.

“‘Course not,” said Albert, “they got their own stuff goin’ on.”

“I thought newsies were there for each other,” said Les.

“C’mon, kid.” Davey steered his little brother in the direction of their house. “Let’s get some sleep, okay? We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

“Your brother ‘n’ I’ll come up with a plan tomorrow,” Jack promised, shooting the boy a smile.

“What kinda plan?” Finch asked.

Jack shrugged, already heading to his rooftop that Crutchie had admiringly called a ‘penthouse’ so many times. “Somethin’ good.”

***

The next morning, the newsies gathered bright and early in the square. They were determined to get Crutchie out of the refuge, though most of them had no idea how.

“Jack, you been in the refuge,” Mush recalled, “how d’you think we could get Crutchie out?”

“Yeah, Roosevelt probably ain’t gonna be there with an escape-carriage,” said JoJo.

“If his bunk ain’t far from the window, we could help him crawl out,” Race suggested.

Jack shook his head. “He’s busted up real bad. He couldn’t even make it to the window when I went.”

“I could sneak in,” Smalls offered, “and maybe Buttons, too, and we could carry ‘im to the window.”

“That’s a good idea,” Buttons agreed.

“When would we go?” Finch asked.

“Tonight,” said Albert.

“It’s gotta be tonight,” said Jack. “The guards don’t check on youse as much at night.”

The newsies mumbled their agreements to each other before disbanding to their selling spots.

***

As the sky turned the colour of ink, the newsies who lived elsewhere gathered at the lodgehouse with the others. There was a tense excitement in the air: this was dangerous, and they knew it, but it was also an adventure...the first adventure they’d had in awhile.

“Are we ready?” Davey asked. He was even more nervous than the others, constantly checking over his shoulder to make sure that Les hadn’t followed him to the lodgehouse. It had taken a lot of convincing in order for his parents to agree, but none of them were willing to put Les in danger, too.

“Hell yeah,” said Smalls, balling his fists. “Let’s get Crutchie out.”

“Snyder won’t know what hit ‘im!” Buttons exclaimed.

Jack started delegating jobs: he and Davey would go first with Smalls and Buttons following a little behind, far enough so they wouldn’t be spotted if the other two were, but close enough that they could communicate. The other newsies insisted on going, too, but Davey insisted that they didn’t want too many to go, and Jack pointed out that many of them were still healing from the fight.

It wasn’t until Jack was staring at the exterior walls of the refuge that the gravity of the situation dawned on him. What if they got caught? That’s four easy newsies in the jail, one of them the long-chased poster boy for bad behaviour.

“You okay?” Davey asked.

Jack nodded, taking the first step up the fire escape. “I’m gonna tell Crutchie the plan. Wait a minute before sendin’ up Smalls and Buttons.” Davey nodded and turned to repeat the information as Jack headed up the steps.

The window was easy enough to open, he’d done it plenty of times before. He slid it open silently and peeked inside.

“_Crutchie_,” he whispered. “_ Crutchie! _”

No answer. Why wasn’t he answering? Jack doubted Crutchie was asleep.

“_Crutchie!_” he tried again.

Jack heard rustling, and a small body moved a few bunks away.

“Crutchie, it’s me. It’s Jack.” Jack couldn’t help but smile. “We’s here to take ya home.”

“Jack Kelly?” Jack didn’t recognize the voice. It was lighter than Crutchie’s, and younger. “The newsboy?”

“Who’s askin’?”

The boy came into view. He was a few years younger than Jack, maybe 14, with dark brown hair and pale skin. Dark bags hung below sunken green eyes, and dried blood clotted a gash across his hollow cheeks.

Jack was pretty sure he’d seen the boy before, but had no idea who he was.

“Crutchie’s gone,” said the boy, pushing his ratted hair from his face.

“Gone where?”

“He’s gone,” the boy repeated, not making eye-contact.

Jack adjusted his cap. “Look, kid, I don’t have all night. I gotta take Crutchie before—”

“The men came and got rid of him yesterday.”

“What the hell are ya talkin’ about?”

“Crutchie’s _gone_!” the boy said as loud as he could, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I mean—”

“I know what you means,” Jack snapped. Didn’t he? Crutchie wasn’t…he couldn’t be…

“Crutchie’s dead. He died two days ago. They beat ‘im up real bad. A doctor came but it was too late. There was so much blood.” The boy wiped at his tears. “I thought you knew.”

“How could I?” Jack adjusted his cap again. The boy was lying, that was the only explanation. Crutchie wasn’t dead. This was a joke. A sick joke, sure, but definitely not the truth.

“I’m sorry,” said the boy.

“It ain’t your fault,” said Jack.

“It’s not yours either.” The boy offered Jack a small smile, one Jack didn’t return. He wasn’t so sure.

***

Jack hated breaking the news to the others. Davey got out of it; they snuck the boy — Jack couldn’t remember his name, and he didn’t really care — out the window and Davey took him back to his house so the Jacobs could fix him up before he joined the other orphaned newsies at the lodgehouse. Smalls and Buttons stayed silent the journey back, swapping looks of empathy and sorrow behind Jack’s back.

The others thought it was a joke, too. Race threatened to “beat Jack up real good if he don’t start tellin’ the truth.”

But he was, and it was obvious once he started crying. The others retreated to their bunks in shock, nobody saying a word until they finally fell asleep. 

Jack retreated to the roof. He couldn’t sleep, although he wasn’t really trying. He sat on one end, leaning against the metal beams as he stared at Crutchie’s stolen blanket, his spare clothes, his abandoned cap.

_ I bet a few months of clean air, you could toss that crutch for good! _

Jack drew his knees to his chest. He had promised Crutchie a better life. He had promised an escape to a safer place, a promising home. He gave him the hope that one day, he wouldn’t have to be embarrassed by his bum leg. He promised him Santa Fe.

And now they’d never make it there. Jack despised the concept of living and dying on the less-than-romantic streets of New York, but that’s exactly what Crutchie did. And not only did he never leave New York, he died in the refuge, the worst place Jack could ever imagine.

Drying the tears he hadn’t noticed he’d let fall, Jack grabbed some old papers and his stolen charcoal pencil. If he wasn’t going to sleep, he might as well make use of the full moon.

***

“I ain’t sellin’ this,” said Jack, furiously tossing the paper to the ground.

“We don’t have a choice,” said Davey, quickly picking it up and smoothing the crinkles. “And don’t waste papes, Jack. Every cent counts.”

“I don’t give a damn about papes!” Jack yelled.

“None of us do!” Davey placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Not right now.”

“We’s not gonna care about anythin’ right now,” Elmer added, “but we’ve gotta sell papes t’stay alive.”

“‘Newsboy passes peacefully at local rehabilitation centre’?” Finch read the headline from his own stack. “They’s kiddin’, right?”

“Peacefully my ass!” Albert cried. “Crutchie went down fightin’.”

“Exactly,” said Davey, “and we have to keep fighting for him. And the only way to do that is to stay alive.”

“Spot Conlon’s here!” Race announced, running over. He took a look at the headline in Finch’s hand. “Well, at least people gotta face it now.”

“Not everyone.” Spot respectfully removed his cap as he joined the others. “It didn’t even make Brooklyn papes.”

“What?” The question echoed throughout the Manhattan newsies.

“What’re ya sellin’?” Mush asked.

Spot frowned. “‘Trolley strike enters fourth week’.”

The newsies all talked over each other, angrily stating their disbelief.

“Can’t we tell ‘em? The Brooklyn reporters?” Smalls asked.

Spot shook his head. “I tried. Took Hotshot with me an’ went to the office. We didn’t even get a word in before they kicked us out an’ threatened to raise the price of papes even more.”

“I don’t believe this,” said Davey, running a hand through his hair.

“I do,” said Jack, gripping his papers. “Men like them don’t care about kids like us. So one of us dies by Snyder’s hands. They’s gonna ignore it every time, come up with some lie to slap in the papes. But Race is right, at least they gotta face it.”

As the others murmured their agreements and separated, Jack headed for his usual spot. But instead of selling, he turned into an alley and stepped inside Ms Medda’s theatre. Selling papers reminded him too much of Crutchie. He needed to paint something. Specifically, he wanted to paint a bigger version of the sketch he’d done the night before. It was a sketch of Crutchie, grinning from ear to ear and raising his fist into the air, handmade STRIKE banner hanging down his crutch. Crutchie was the most ecstatic about going on strike, and he lifted the other newsies’ spirits when they failed to recruit the other burroughs.

Jack dipped his paintbrush into a can of cinnamon-brown paint and got to work. He left the sketched version in the chest pocket of his apron, close to his heart. When he finished, he left the painting to dry in an unfrequented corner of the theatre. He took off his apron and slipped the sketch into the pocket of his trousers.

_ When I leave for Santa Fe,_ he thought, heading back to his selling spot, _I’m taking you with me. _


End file.
